


Element

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Nesting, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:53:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21946885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Sam gardens during Frodo’s cycle.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 9
Kudos: 204





	Element

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Sam always knows when Frodo’s in heat, because Frodo isn’t like _proper_ omegas—he doesn’t bar the doors and windows and hide himself away for days on end. He still greets Sam in the morning, still offers Sam tea, occasionally pokes out the window with his pale cheeks flushed pink and his dark hair tousled. Sam can smell the thick, cloying aroma of _want_ and _need_ that wafts out from the chimney. Occasionally, he can hear Frodo’s wanton moans and desperate cries. He flushes bright red himself and keeps his head down, because it would be rude to wander inside and stare like he wants to. He stays on all fours in the warm earth and pulls weeds out of the garden, like he’s not a sturdy alpha ready for a willing mate. 

He works tirelessly all morning and stays well into the afternoon, even though he’s freed the whole place of dandelions and really could go home. He trims the hedge and waters the flowers, then just plods around _looking_ for things to do—any excuse to stay. Frodo’s heats smell like honey and lavender. Frodo sounds like an Elvish song. Sam can only imagine what Frodo _feels_ like. Tastes like. Then Frodo’s trailing out of the house again, and Sam’s treated to a gorgeous view of the most handsome hobbit in all the Shire. 

In just his long nightdress, Frodo pauses over the threshold. He smiles sheepishly at Sam, one hand fisted in the front of the white fabric and the other twitching at his side. He breathes, “Hullo, Sam,” laboured and magical, just like he did when Sam first arrived. Except the heat’s ravaged him since then. Sam can feel it. But his master’s _strong_ —Frodo’s still up and about, when most would be glued to their nests, unable to stray further than the kitchen. 

Sam answers, “Hullo, Mr. Frodo,” and then he has to swallow, because his mouth might be watering. He tries to be casual, _proper_ —tries to make his old gaffer proud. He asks, “How goes your nest?” Frodo should still be building it up at this stage—Sam’s been keeping track. 

“It’s alright,” Frodo answers, though Sam’s sure it must be as lovely as everything else in Bag End. “But I feel like it’s missing something.”

“Oh? What is that?” Sam sets his trowel down and pats the dirt off his knees, fully ready to head down to the market and fetch whatever Frodo should need. Frodo bites his bottom lip, chews it for a few seconds, and comes down to pad across the grass. 

He reaches out and touches Sam’s wrist—Sam’s eyes go wide, lips parting. Frodo’s so _warm_. He gives Sam a gentle smile and tugs Sam back towards the house. Sam’s heart leaps in his chest, and he follows.


End file.
